Watering the Mambas

People say that Africa gets inside you, grabs a hold of something in you. That for many it’s hard to get away once you’ve lived in this land of red earth and tall grass. I’ve seen so many beautiful and so many terrible things this year, and I’ve often tried to put these experiences into words, perhaps sometimes succeeding in communicating the true sentiment of the moment to a reader.

There are many things I will miss. Fresh tropical fruit, and other foods of the season and region; last week we went to the mountain town of Gurue and came back with beans and sunflower seeds for roasting.

The Francisco family of Nguanje; the many children of this tight knit family make up the membership of one of my favorite (sshh) youth groups. This week we visited their garden together for the last time. Jacama kept running ahead of us, jumping out of each bushy hiding spot when we passed, singing one of our favorite tunes. The girls giggled and held my hands.

Cooking with Mozambican women; I cook with my best friend in her home in Quelimane almost daily. She blames me for making her gain weight, and I accept it. This week, we went to Morrumbala for a ‘Dia de Campo’, or field day, with my kids groups, spending the whole night before preparing vitamin rich foods like sweet potato juice and soy milk to share with the children at the celebration. My neighbors came to help as well, peeling oranges as we patted out sweet potato cakes. It was one of the best nights I’ve had in Morrumbala. And on our last night, we went to my neighbor’s house for a dinner of cow liver, my first, and apparently a Mozambican favorite. It wasn’t terrible, as most Americans might fear, but I was glad I chose this evening to teach them how to make banana pudding. A nice palate cleanser.

Other moments of excitement, shock, awe, anticipation, humility. Playing an extra in a Portuguese film. Near head-on collisions; who would expect another vehicle to come around that grassy middle-of-nowhere curve? An unexpected lunar eclipse viewed from the bush. A gift of a goat valuing 15 dollars, a fortune for this family who doesn’t have electricity or running water. Who live in a mud and grass hut in the middle of the bush. Stopping on the side of the road when you can’t hold it anymore to water the grass, and hopefully not water any mambas. Playing mancala in the dirt with kids who can’t write their own name, but who have mastered this intricate game of counting and strategy.

And also many times I just wanted to shut my eyes, to hold the tears in. Children fighting over the chance to have a small cup of soy milk or sweet potato juice; would this ever happen in America? Pedestrian mortalities. Ubiquitous Catholicism which has taken the place of traditional spiritual rites, the result of years of resource dumping into schools, churches, infrastructure. So much good has been done in the name of a God that was not born on this continent. The many, many, many instances of ‘what have you brought us?’ The culture of receiving has been so ingrained here, perpetuated by a generation of foreigners who wish to atone for the sins of their grandfathers, who often feel helpless to do anything but dump charity onto Africa and its people, who have thus transitioned from “Do what you’re told and you won’t be beaten” to “Do what you’re told and I’ll give you a t-shirt that advertises my organization”.

After our Dia de Campo, I was told that the community was very pleased with the day’s activities, but that they were quite displeased with the snack we brought. “Why?” I asked. They seemed to like the sweet potato juice and soy milk and cookies.“Oh yes, they did like them. But they were expecting a full meal.”

At the end of the day, we brought out a soccer ball and the kids played their hearts out until the setting sun commanded our departure. They would have played all night had we let them, and the next day too until their tired, skinny, dirty little legs would propel them no further and they collapsed to sleep, puppies in the dirt. Sometimes I think I’ll give up on effecting complicated social change and simply distribute soccer balls across Zambezia. But how then would I be any different from any of the other dumpers to whom I condescend? To give or not to give, that is the question. Were it as simple as taking the sweet potato off the plate of an 8 year old American who refuses to eat it and popping it into the mouth of a child in Africa…but we know the redistribution of resources depends on so many political, economic, and social factors. “There are starving kids in Africa” is true enough, but it doesn’t make the food come.

I often marvel at the stark differences between socio-economic classes; how must my Mozambican colleagues feel when they go to the bush and see their countrymen who have so much less than them? When they walk past a barefoot woman in the city streets, carrying all her belongings on her back? What they must feel is this: that could very easily be me, and I categorically refuse.

The Speed of Light

I’ve written on this topic several times before, but highway etiquette here never ceases to amaze me and makes for endless amounts of writing material. Nine months in this country and my teeth must be ground to nubs. All drivers are constantly on the offensive, laying on the horn when I, in their place, would reduce my speed significantly, and nary a seatbelt in sight. Both north and southbound travelers treat the same road as though it were one way. And until recently, I maintained hope that all the stories I heard of vehicular homicide involving NGO or government cars and rural pedestrians would remain just that: stories. Unfortunate tales that I could try not to think about. But this week, as I accompanied some colleagues visiting from another district to see the junior farmer groups in our province, we came upon an accident that left me short of breath. The feet of a frail woman, most likely old beyond her years, protruding from a black cloth spread across the center of the road. Lettuce from her basket scattered across the lanes, and a government car pulled off on the side of the road.

The woman who sat in front of me crossed herself, and we traveled on. There was nothing else to do.

Another story, the validity of which I hope to never witness proof of, is that of women who actively shove their children into the road when they see NGO cars coming, hoping to receive handsome compensation for the ensuing injury or death. Absolute desperation does very ugly things to a person, and I thank the heavens and whatever is up there every day that life has handed me such good fortune.

Crocodile Crossing

Road-signs are a bit different here, most notably the ones framing low bridges that warn passersby to mind the crocodiles. “Cuidado Com Crocodilo”. And people would do well to heed this warning, as I just learned that more deaths are caused by crocodiles than any other animal in Mozambique. Not at all surprising, considering that large animal populations in this country have declined significantly in the past several decades. What was a bit surprising was the information that a crocodile had somehow made its way to Quelimane, a relatively large city, where it promptly took up residence in a canal and began terrorizing the neighborhood. My initial reaction was “Why doesn’t the government get rid of it, even shoot it if necessary? After all, a human life must be more valuable than a crocodile’s” and the unexpected response I received was that the crocodile hasn’t hurt anyone (yet) and they would have animal rights groups all over their case. Animal rights groups? In Mozambique?? Where wildlife populations have been systematically obliterated without the bat of an eye? Huh. Guess it’s never too late to start caring.

The numerical results that foreign donor groups demand from on the ground NGO staff often pose unfortunate limitations on our ability to focus a sufficient amount of attention and resources on projects that have the potential to produce very meaningful results. Instead of consistently supporting a modest number of beneficiaries, we’re often running around trying to start ‘x’ number of groups with ‘x’ number of members receiving ‘x’ number of visits in order for quarterly reports to seem meaty when they reach Washington. Conversely, huge amounts of money and effort are dedicated to one-day events that have no real impact on the people our organization was designed to support and care for.

For so many people, this is just a job. Not one they chose because they want to make a difference, but simply the best option for carving out a lifestyle free from the poverty we would, in theory, alleviate. NGOs are among the most important employers in Africa, making for an interesting dynamic. For me, the machine is often frustrating, and has me longing to belong to a smaller, organic operation, albeit working on the same types of projects. But for many of my colleagues, the largest concern is, naturally, where they will find work when their 2-3 year life-of-project contract is up.

And although that has nothing to do with city-dwelling crocodiles, it leaves me equally riled up.

Grasshopper Graveyard

When I leave in July, I will certainly miss the sites that a small Mozambican city has to offer. Young men holding hands in the street. Two women walking side by side in identical wraps. An old man in a black fedora, riding a pink bicycle with a basket on the front.

Other things I won’t miss so much. It seems every time I return home, a different bug has set up camp in my humble abode (and even, at times, inside my humble body, although that’s another story. The one that tells of all the parasites I have had in the past few years). This time, it was the grasshoppers. Brown ones, green ones, fast ones, slow ones, but at least they crunch when you kill them, as opposed to making the much less desirable squish of a big hairy spider.

All creatures great and small are an important part of daily life here. Mozambicans are endlessly entertained by the commentary a passing piglet in the road can inspire. “That one was asking for it! We almost had a barbeque tonight – hahaha!” Every time.

A Love Affair With Food

I fell in love with food in Africa. Maybe I also fell in love with Africa through food, but that’s a different story.

Comforts are so few and far between here, so the amount of pleasure a well-thought out and carefully executed meal brings is remarkable. And although it takes a lot of effort and careful planning, I have the resources to frequently create a wide variety of exciting and flavorful meals. This is not the case for most rural Africans, who have experienced significant hunger for so long that food has become the apex of much of their folklore.

“See that mountain over there? With the big white rock on the front of it? That is a door that spirits travel through.”

“Oh? And what do they find when they get inside? Gold? Treasure?”

“No. They find food. Endless quantities of food.”

Six Miles to the End of the World

It’s amazing how far 6 miles can feel when you’re crashing through the bush down rutted dirt roads. Where every bean tree and corn stalk looks like the last and within 5 minutes, you’re hopelessly disoriented.

After finishing up a visit to 2 new and distant groups yesterday, my driver and I got a bit of a late start heading home. I asked before we departed if he knew how to get back – our guides informed us they were staying behind to head to their nearby homes – and he assured me that he did.

About 30 minutes later, we came to a huge puddle (pond really) in the road that we definitely hadn’t crossed on our way there. Questioning a passerby, we found that we had missed our turn by a long shot. But within a minute, the driver had me convinced he had this under control. Even though every road here looks the same to me, he has had a lot of practice orienting himself using mountains and sun position, so even though we were on a different route, he was still confident he could get us home. So we plunged nose first into the pond.

And promptly got stuck.

I must have let out a frustrated (or terrified because oh-my-god-i’m-not-sleeping-in-this-truck-in-the-bush-with-no-cell-service) sigh because he immediately took to reassuring me. ‘Don’t worry! We’ll get out!’ (He starts taking off his shoes) ‘A much bigger truck passed by here not long ago, so we’re just fine!’ (The socks come off). ‘I’ll just step out here and hook up the traction!’ (I have no idea what he’s talking about and am trying to breathe slowly.)

He hopped out of the car, did something to the front wheels, hopped back in, and freed us without much more ado. I relaxed, but would not do so completely until I got home. The quick African night was upon us and we still had to navigate our way around a new bridge not yet equipped for the passing of vehicles.

High Highs and Low Lows

I feel certain that never again in my life will I have a job that is equally heartbreaking as it is rewarding. Yesterday I visited a new group of kids for the first time and was absolutely blown away by them; their attitude, their responsiveness, their vegetable garden – everything was impressive and inspiring. They proudly showed me where they had planted carrots, onions, cabbage, collards and asked that I bring them tomato seeds and a notebook so that they can keep track of their work. Maybe the program can survive when I’m gone after all!

And then today. I visited one of the first groups I started months back and their plots were abominable. Waste high weeds and all their vegetable seedlings had dies from a lack of water and mulching. I didn’t even know what to say, so I sat down on the ground, right where I stood in the vegetable garden, and asked what was going on. They were reluctant to speak at all, and only mumbled that some members weren’t pulling their weight with the watering/weeding schedule and that the sun was very strong.

I remind myself that the new group is just that – a new group. They’re still excited, the magic hasn’t worn off. But if my auxiliaries were doing their jobs (and some are more than others) and integrating work with play and education, I like to think that the kids would stay inspired year round. I can’t be everywhere at once, and come August, I won’t be anywhere near them. So I remind myself (I’m always reminding myself, so as not to slump into hopeless depression) that it doesn’t really matter if none of these groups stick with it and become Mozambique’s best vegetable farmers. What matters is that they gain something, be it emotional, educational, or purely recreational, from the experience.

A recent article from the economist, a special piece on food security, explains just how difficult it is to produce food in Africa, as if I needed any more proof. The soil is exhausted, people can’t afford fertilizers, and perhaps most importantly, water is extremely hard to come by. So the fact that these kids are out there at all has to count for something. And I’ll try not to take it so personally that a lot of them show up simply because they hope to get a ride in the bed of my truck.